


The storm before the calm

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Depressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes Aziraphale can't control his feelings and thoughts. He's always thought it best to deal with it on his own, until he doesn't have to anymore.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 169
Collections: Anonymous, Anonymous Fics, Hurt Aziraphale





	The storm before the calm

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Apologies if this has glaring errors, etc. It is a one-shot that I wrote because I'm been struggling a lot this month and it can never be said that I don't project on Aziraphale. I proofread before posting but feel free to point out any typos I may have missed.
> 
> 2) There's nothing that I think needs a warning, but if there are any tags you think are glaringly obvious that should be included, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Crowley was tapping his dessert spoon against the stem of his wine glass. He had been doing so on and off throughout the meal, when their conversation came to a natural, comfortable lull as Aziraphale ate. It wasn't Crowley's fault, Aziraphale reminded himself, but had to forcibly school his reaction to the noise. Though he could feel the irritation gnawing at his insides, bubbling up and desperate for an outlet, it was not Crowley's fault. On nearly any other day Aziraphale would hardly even take notice of it; just another tic of Crowley's, something he did to keep his hands busy. 

Now the repetitive _ting ting ting ting_ of metal on glass was fit to drive Aziraphale crazy. He should have cancelled their dinner, as much as he hated to do so. He had felt this building all day, and had gambled that he would make it through the evening without incident. Gripping his spoon tightly enough his knuckles whitened, and fisting his other hand, unseen, in the material of his trousers, his irritation - the positively unreasonable irritation; he knew that much, logically - simmered and threatened to boil over. Instead Aziraphale tried to focus his attention on his dessert. Unfair, really, for this _mood_ to overtake his enjoyment of what was an exquisite pear and lemon verbena vacherin.

It had been quite some time - decades, perhaps half a century - since he had endured one of these episodes. He did not know what else to call it. He never knew what triggered its onset, but Aziraphale knew how it would go. Tonight was the irrational irritation, lingering into the morning. It made him feel utterly unlike himself, yet it was out of his control. Within the next day or two he would lapse into apathy and emptiness, which was somehow even worse.

Early on he had accepted it as a side-effect of his assignment: spending too long away from Heaven, on the outside of the warm, constant presence of the Host; witnessing heaven- or hell-wrought atrocity or, worse, human atrocity after human atrocity. So it was ridiculous that it should be happening now, when he was happier than he could ever remember being. It had been months since there had been any communication from Gabriel and the other Archangels; Hell was leaving Crowley alone, as agreed. It had taken some getting used to, at first, the lack of purpose and the abundance of so-called 'free time'. But Aziraphale was starting to enjoy it. Seeing Crowley whenever he liked, for no other reason than the pleasure derived from being in his company; sampling the newest restaurants and eateries across London; spontaneous jaunts to far-flung corners of the Earth just for the experience.

So he felt unbearably selfish, sitting there with a delectable dessert, drinking the perfect complementary wine, in the best company he could hope for, and feeling that at any moment he was bound to snap something rude and uncalled for just because Crowley would not stop tapping that. Cursed. Spoon.

"Angel? You all right?" The tapping stopped for a moment, at least. Crowley was watching him from over the rim of his glasses, one eyebrow arched slightly. The irritation twisted Aziraphale's insides and sparked; was he not allowed to disappear into his thoughts for a moment? The judgement, the condescension in that expression - "You looked a little zoned out there."

Aziraphale forced a smile, took another spoonful of his vacherin. It wasn't fair on Crowley. He wasn't judging, he never truly judged Aziraphale; where was that thought even coming from? It was all him, spoiling for a fight. No better than- than - "I'm fine. A tad distracted, I suppose." Crowley likely judged Aziraphale privately. He was such a useless angel, it was the least he deserved.

 _ting ting tingtingting ting_...It had to be some obnoxious bebop Crowley was mimicking, but there was no melody to it, just the same monotonous, tuneless note over and over and over again - _ting ting-ting-ting_ "Would you please _stop that_?"

Crowley froze. Aziraphale froze, stared hard into his dessert. His spoon was bent, but straightened out again because Aziraphale expected it to. "I am sorry, Crowley," he spouted at once, insides clenching, before Crowley had a chance to demand what the heaven was wrong with him. "I. A minor headache, that's all. I -"

"'S okay," Crowley muttered, and thankfully - _mercifully_ \- set the offending spoon aside. "Didn't realize I was doing it. You sure everything's all right?"

"Yes." Aziraphale made quick work of the remainder of his dessert. The sooner he could get out of the restaurant and back to the bookshop, the better the chances of not hurting Crowley's feelings with his ridiculousness. "I apologise again, dear boy. I believe I just need to retire early; let me settle our bill, and -"

"Nah, forget it angel." Without waiting for the cheque Crowley laid out a wad of notes - including an ample tip, more than likely, the generous fiend - and pushed his chair back. "My treat."

Aziraphale smiled weakly, feeling even worse for his outburst. "Well, thank you. I insist on paying next time."

They spilled out of the restaurant under the dark sky over Kensington Park Road, the Bentley parked across two resident-only spaces in front of the modern block of flats next door. It would take over an hour to walk back to the bookshop, but Aziraphale found himself oddly reluctant to get into the car. Crowley's unique brand of driving put him on edge on a good day; he could not imagine the effect it would have as he teetered on the edge of _an episode_. "Thank you again, my dear boy," he repeated as he edged away in the direction opposite the Bentley. A bus, still irritating and plodding, and he'd still have to walk twenty minutes or so, but he could avoid conversation, could simmer in his foul mood until he was home again. He wouldn't be elbow-to-elbow with Crowley in the front seat of the car. "It is such a lovely evening, I think I'll - well, I think it would do me good to get some fresh air."

Crowley was watching him with that incredulous, dubious expression again. "It's going to rain, angel." Indeed, the overhead was looking fairly ominous with swollen clouds. Aziraphale spared it a glance but swallowed, intent on soldiering on. The quiet of the bookshop, behind his locked door, blinds drawn, books all 'round him. Just what he needed to wait this out for a few days. "It'll take you ages to get home."

"If I get caught out I shall simply hop on a bus." He couldn't see Crowley's eyes but was around ninety-percent certain the demon was rolling them.

"Don't be ridiculous," Crowley snapped. "I don't know what's going on with you, but get in the car."

The irritation swelled; Aziraphale clenched his hands into fists at his sides and squeezed tight, digging fingernails into palms. He set his jaw so firmly it started to ache. "I'm not very good company at the moment," he said stiffly. It was all he was able to explain without losing his temper. 

"Since when has that ever bothered me?" Crowley threw over his shoulder. He was already at the driver's door, as if he took for granted that Aziraphale would just obey and get into the car without another thought. It was a throwaway comment, the sort of jest Crowley would make if he was trying to dilute some kind words, but Aziraphale could feel himself reacting to it as he would the worst insult. He _was_ always poor company; always eating, nattering on about things that interested no one, so boring - Crowley merely tolerated him because he was the only other celestial being on the planet for any period of time, and because for a millennium Aziraphale had been the other half of The Arrangement. He was insufferable, obviously. No other angel wanted anything to do with him; that was abundantly clear. Why would he expect Crowley to be any different?  
His traitorous mouth responded aloud instead of keeping that bile inside. "Well," he spluttered, "don't feel as though you need to do me any favours." With that, he spun on his heel and stalked off. A raindrop splattered on his cheek. Dratted rain, dratted London; always the worst timing. Behind him came the squeal of the Bentley's tyres as Crowley pulled a very illegal U-turn, and the sound of the engine as the car pulled up alongside him and matched his pace. 

"Angel, get in the car." 

Irritation and that irrational anger were warring for top billing, and to make things even worse Aziraphale felt embarrassingly close to tears. The rain was changing over from the occasional droplet to a steadying shower; he would need to use a miracle to dry out his beloved overcoat. "I will take the bus."

"You hate the bus. Angel -" Crowley swerved around a car, whose driver had inadvisably decided to pull out of their parking spot without looking, and back in toward the pavement again without missing a beat. "Aziraphale, come on, let me drive you home. Your coat is getting wet."

Aziraphale finally relented. Crowley did know him well, didn't he? And at this rate Aziraphale was more likely to end up sheltering in an alley than making it home without incident. He stepped off the pavement and got in, ignoring the horn blast from the driver behind them. He slouched, miserable and embarrassed, into the seat and refused to look at Crowley. Mercifully, the demon did not say anything else; merely took the hint and drove.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

When the bookshop loomed into view Aziraphale was as relieved as he had been stepping through the doors after the young Antichrist had restored it. As if he knew Aziraphale was going to bolt as soon as the car rolled to a stop, Crowley slowed the Bentley to a crawl several yards from the door. "Angel..." His voice was very quiet, and very gentle. Aziraphale couldn't bear it, the pity.

"I am fine," Aziraphale said shortly. "It's just -"

"Headache. Yeah, got it." At the kerb near the shop Crowley put the car in park. Aziraphale wrung his hands, imagining himself already inside, fluffy duvet tucked around his legs, book in his lap, cocoa in hand. "Look. I mean. You can...talk to me," Crowley said awkwardly. "If Upstairs was in touch, if they threatened you or...or something. You'd say. Right?"

"Yes. It really is nothing. Just being an old silly."

Crowley watched him a little longer, then finally sighed. Aziraphale took that as his cue to open the door, and clumsily levered himself out of the Bentley. "Thank you again for dinner, my dear. I will telephone you soon."

"Okay, angel. 'Night."

"Good night." Aziraphale unlocked the shop and went inside without looking back. When he turned the key from the inside he waited until the Bentley's headlights slowly moved past the window and down the road before he retreated into the back room. Without bothering to remove and hang his overcoat, Aziraphale sank into his armchair and blindly picked up a book. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

\---------------------------------------------------------------

  
Aziraphale had felt separate before, in other contexts. Arriving on Earth the first time was like being cut down at the knees as for the first time in his existence he was unable to sense the rest of the Host. Throughout the millennia he had fallen into the habit, at first on Heaven's order and later because it had become easier, of keeping the humans at arms' length. 

This separation was different, and it was more chilling. It was Aziraphale at the bottom of a deep sea, and the rest of the world above him. It was a thick fog that was impossible to traverse. It made him feel as though his reaction was one-tenth of its normal; he was hyper aware that the simplest social nicety directed his way had to be parsed and processed before he could clumsily respond. His expressions felt wooden and difficult to manipulate. As that _mood_ deepened he gave up trying. It was simpler to sink into himself; exist on his own to wait for the fog to lift, to wait for the unconscious cue his body used to buoy him up to the world occupied by everyone else.

He had done some reading over the years on human mental health - it was necessary to his job, really, to try and understand why some humans used free will the way they did, and to react accordingly - and after some time had decided his _moods_ sounded rather similar to the experience some humans had with depression. He was an angel and could therefore not become depressed, of course, but he always remembered reading about the importance of maintaining one's routine as a coping strategy.

Aziraphale liked routine in general, so this was easily done. He did not sleep, but in the morning at what he deemed an appropriate time he rose from his armchair and shuffled to his kitchenette, where he brewed a pot of tea and summoned something for breakfast. The thought of going out and inflicting himself on others in this state was paralyzing, so he ensured that the appropriate payment made its way into the till to replace whatever scone or nibble he had miracled away. After he ate and drank his tea he washed up his few dishes, then went to the window to observe the crush of humanity on Greek Street through the slats of the window blinds. On Sunday he retired to the back room and completed the _Daily Telegraph_ crossword in more than double his usual time, then tried to concentrate long enough to read a bit.

After that time rather got away from him; soon enough the clock chimed six and, because he expected it to, his stomach made it clear it would not be averse to eating something small.

Normally he would half-heartedly miracle something and mechanically eat it in the arm chair, then wait until morning in hope he would have emerged from this funk by then. This evening, however, there came the rattle of the door handle followed by very loud, pointed knocks. He sat very still, though no one could see into the back room, and if it happened to be a human they would eventually take the hint and go away.

"Aziraphale!"

Not a human. Aziraphale heaved a sigh that came from his toes and levered his uncooperative body out of the chair. Out through the dim shop, through the pattern of light allowed in by the oculus above, until the door loomed before him. He cleared his throat. "Crowley."

"Hey angel. ...Are you going to let me in?" 

That was the last thing Aziraphale wanted to do. But he couldn't deny Crowley, was too drained for even a little irritation to take root, and slowly unlocked the door. He pulled it open just a little, and trained his gaze somewhere south of Crowley's knees. He knew how he probably looked, and was mortified. "Hello."

"Aziraphale..." There was that voice again, too gentle and far too kind. For the first time in days Aziraphale felt as if he would burst into tears. A lump rose in his throat and he blinked once, twice, to try and bring himself up to speed with the rest of the world. "What's going on?"

The question reached him through the fog, through the sea; he made a 'hm' to tell Crowley he was considering his response. "What are you doing here?" he asked instead.

"What am I doing here? I've been calling; it's been days. Thought we'd...I don't know. Go for a walk? St James'? Feed the ducks? Grab a bite." Crowley moved a little closer, physical indication that he intended to come in. Aziraphale obediently stepped back and allowed it, mostly because he was too preoccupied by the pre-emptive mortification brought on by the thought of having to interact with anyone else.

"Not today," Aziraphale croaked. He turned and wandered to the back room, leaving Crowley to close and lock the door. 

"Okay. I mean, you haven't been answering my calls; I was - getting concerned."

Keeping his back to Crowley, Aziraphale rearranged a few books that didn't need rearranging. "I'm fine."

"Well, what have you been doing the last few days?"

"Erm..." He tried to focus on the question. What had he been doing? There was the big crossword - was that yesterday or the day before? He ate breakfast, ate something for his tea in the evenings. He washed up after himself. But all of those things did not take up the whole day. He was - "Reading."

Some time between Crowley asking the question and Aziraphale answering Crowley had come closer, and was leaning one shoulder on the bookshelf. Surprised, Aziraphale looked up at his face. Crowley was not wearing his glasses, and his eyes were very bright and very worried. "Angel...what's wrong?"

That question again. That question with no answer - at least, not one that didn't make Aziraphale feel unbelievably stupid. So he answered the only way he possibly could. "I don't know." The words were raspy, his throat tight and aching, like he had swallowed a handful of drawing pins. "This happens."

"Come on." Crowley removed the book from his hands, laid it gently aside. He tugged at Aziraphale's sleeve and, suitably prompted, Aziraphale followed him to the settee. 

"I don't want to - I am very poor company, I don't want to talk," Aziraphale said breathlessly, the words all escaping him at once. Crowley didn't answer at first, just sat him down and reached up to Aziraphale's throat - oh, removing his bowtie, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. "I do not feel like drinking."   
Crowley carefully laid the bowtie aside, crouched in front of him. "You said this happens?" Aziraphale nodded. "How often?"

It had been decades. Before that, Aziraphale did not know. He shrugged helplessly. Crowley pressed both palms to Aziraphale's knees, fingertips just touching where Aziraphale's hands were knotted in his lap. "That actually explains a lot," he said, still in that achingly kind voice, "about a few times you just...disappeared." With a snap of Crowley's fingers there was suddenly a large television on a simple television stand. There was nowhere to plug it in, but it came to life anyway. "When it happens, how long does it last?"

"I don't..." Aziraphale's throat closed over. "Sometimes a week," he managed eventually. Crowley was watching him like Aziraphale was something precious - _something useless, something pitiable,_ , the tired, critical voice in his head corrected. He roused himself enough to push Crowley's hands away. "Sometimes less. You don't need to - it will go away. It always goes away."

Crowley didn't go away. He didn't touch, but stayed there, crouched in front of Aziraphale. He looked as though he were thinking very hard about something. "What do you usually do, to make it stop?"

Aziraphale gestured half-heartedly around him. "Just this. I'm not...good company like this. No one wants to be around a human who is like this, let alone an angel."  
"So you just hole up wherever, alone, and wait for it to stop?" Crowley's voice was gentle, still, but with a pained edge. "I wish you had told me."

He gave Crowley a pitying look. "There is no point. There is nothing to be done about it."

Crowley waved at the television, changing it to something inoffensive about baking, and moved to sit beside Aziraphale. "We could do something like this."

"I told you, I don't want to talk."

"Then we don't have to." There were pillows then, mounds of pillows and blankets appearing on the settee, which was suddenly much more spacious and comfortable than it had been a moment earlier. Crowley lounged kitty-corner at one end. "They're doing French patisserie this episode," he said nonsensically. It took an embarrassingly long time for Aziraphale to realize he meant the television programme. "Let's watch them attempt macarons and tarte tatin. Then I'll run out and get you the real thing, if you want, or I'll get you a curry or anything else you'd like. We can sit in here and you can read, or I'll read to you if you'd like, until eventually this goes away and you feel better. Maybe I can't do more than that, angel, but I won't let you be alone."

Aziraphale had, on and off, felt on the verge of tears for days, but that about tipped him over the edge. He swiped at his eyes before more than a couple of them could fall, and tried to hide it by shuffling over under the arm Crowley had lifted for him. He let Crowley tuck pillows around him and under his head to give him a good viewing angle if he so desired; let him drape a warm, heavy blanket over him and bind him in as close as possible. 

"This okay?" Crowley's breath ruffled Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale sniffed and nodded; wormed an arm around Crowley's waist. Fingers found their way into his hair and started up a gentle scritching from the nape of his neck, up to the crown of his head and down around his ear, then repeated the pattern. Aziraphale found himself matching the rhythm of Crowley's breathing and for the first time in days, though he did not feel immediately better, began to feel the promise of the _episode_ eventually passing, and believed in the promise of support through all of the episodes that would surely come.

"Thank you my dear," he murmured.


End file.
